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| Sunday, August 05, 2007
Grey Walls Writer : Ronald WongGrey walls, clean as memory, envelop me. Directly ahead, a solid metal door masked in a coat of white paint stood. I peered through the small glass pane in the door and saw more doors. Unsure of how to get through, I glanced around and noticed an image of a bell above a smooth, white button. I paused. Then I pressed it hoping no one would answer. Except for a grey-uniformed nurse who walked to the counter behind the door. There was a click and then a passageway opened - hesitantly - for me and I stepped inside, reciprocating with reluctance. "I'm here to see a friend? Leslie." The Malay gentleman clad in grey nodded and signalled to another door on my right. I paused again before pushing - it was locked. Before long, I saw a short, stout lady nurse walk over from the other side and insert a key into the lock. Another click : she beckoned me in and asked whom I was seeing. I wondered, but my mouth betrayed me. A small place with more grey walls. The nurse led me to the corner where the bursts of shouting were emanating incessantly from. When she drew the pale green curtain, my heart sank. Laid before me was Leslie - tied at his limbs with thick white cloth to the grey metal bed frame - cringing and twisting. (His refrain, "Why! Salvation and life? Don't you want salvation!" continued to ring in my ears even after I left the room that day.) "Leslie, your friend is here to see you," the nurse gently said. He continued to turn and shout. "Leslie, this is your friend. You know his name?" asked the nurse. "Friend? What friend?" Leslie replied as he stared through me. A heavy silence settled before the next word reverberated through the stillness like the first shot of a long battle. "Ronald!" Leslie suddenly shouted thunderously. I smiled the widest smile I could muster. "Is he my friend? Of course I know him! Ronald!" The face I used to know was now gravely sunken ; a cloud of gloom hung above his slightly bruised wrists and chapped lips. "This is the Kingdom of God. It is tainted with the blood of the Lamb," he spoke softly to me. I edged closer while judging the reliability of the thick white cloth that bound him to the bed. "You mean Jesus Christ?" I said, finally. He nodded with seriousness. Another thing that struck me was the word 'chronographer'. 'Who?' I questioned. Me, who was impatiently instructed to write down everything. (And so I did.) The orders : to be a Commander-in-Chief while he was away fighting. To be a narrator because he needed one. To be a healer. To sneak into a place to take the sword. To plunge the sword into a heart. To lay a Celtic cloak of invincibility over him. To learn the special skill of mind reading called sight read. To shoot myself for being stupid. And to shoot myself. This one and a half hours also was too terrifying to pen down. (I cannot find the rectitude in me to have it immortalised here on paper.) It was almost diabolical. Otherwise I did not feel any fear, except when I was to leave. He reached for my hand that was reluctantly given, and subsequently gripped, firmly. I froze when he beckoned me closer, afraid - absurd as it sounds - that he would bite my ear off. He persistently insisted, looking through my eyes, "Don't worry, I won't twist your hand." And so my unwilling hand moved to his chest and my ears to his lips that emitted a warm, moist breath, "I'll tell you the secret of angels." I nodded. He paused. I stared at him. I saw him open his mouth and I tilted my ear towards his lips once again. Then he shared the 'secret'. He blew a breath at me with an airy and hollow 'ahh'. I closed my eyes, perhaps to show him that I had received the secret or perhaps because I needed a split second of reprieve from the hours of madness. Then, I told him that God was with him and he need only be patient. Then I left. I cringed and twisted on my bed at 1 A.M. that very day. Tired as I was, my mind refused to release me of the horrifying image that pervaded my mental vision. Each time the red-eyed, forlorn faced Leslie appeared in my head, I quickly replaced the image upon gathering all my will with the memory of the soft-spoken, good-natured, amiable and affable Leslie I once worked with. I miss you, Leslie. It was 1.30 A.M. It was then I allowed myself to go through the conversations we had. As I myself was struggling with emotional distress from several personal issues, I was contemplating everything that had occurred in those areas of my life, it was then I began to understand or at least suspect that I understand what was bothering my friend Leslie. Leslie, you poor soul. You were persecuted and mutilated. You fought countless battles and sought courage so that you may declare your love for her. You fought wars for us to save us. You struggled in a tug-of-war between your senses and your faith, in the hope that the end of days would never fall on us. You stuck to your conviction that salvation was not simply received through blind faith but love and forgiveness. You tussled with God in your mind so that all of us would not be spurned to hell 'many levels below' but be forgiven. You had battled so hard because you love. Yet you were sacrificed. All these thoughts and revelations flooded my mind as I twisted and turned on my bed in the darkness that engulfed me. This darkness hid me from the grey walls that enveloped me. But you, valiant and strong, withstood the piercing light. Now, you are caged between grey walls. And all I can do is twist and turn on my bed and pray. Ronald Wong is 20 years old, serves at YCKC Chapel, plays guitar and bass, "won some SYDA award thing some time back for a drama script" and writes occasionally. You may email him at mr.sandmannn@gmail.com.
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